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I confess. I fell off the bandwagon. I previously shared how I was doing my own version of NaNoWriMo in February. More of a commitment to writing than setting deadlines and goals, because deadlines and goals = anxiety and failure for me. I will never be good at NaNoWriMo, butt-in-chair …Continue reading →

I have a gift for you, my lovelies. I know. You’re all excited. Decaying, you say? What does that mean? (Skip this fluffernutter stand and go straight to just download it!) It’s a fancy mathey way to say reverse NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) using the Reward System. In the …Continue reading →

I was a born writer. I devoured books at a typically precocious age. I ran off to the woods and wrote poetry when most kids weren’t allowed out alone. I wrote and wrote all through school, through high school. I have folders full of writing, including one novelesque attempt. But …Continue reading →

Quote I think epic fantasy writers just need to remember this: regardless of what world/era your story is based on, 50% of the population will be female, not all the females will be beautiful ladies, not all the gentlemen will be interested in ladies, and some of the kids will …Continue reading →

When Earth’s last picture is painted And the tubes are twisted and dried When the oldest colors have faded And the youngest critic has died We shall rest, and faith, we shall need it Lie down for an aeon or two ‘Till the Master of all good workmen Shall put …Continue reading →

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A woman discovers a terrible secret, and chooses to solve her problems with lasagna.

#

I wake to rain pounding on the windows and an empty bed. I smooth the worn blanket on his side. He’s still not home. I check my phone, but nothing. He hasn’t posted on his wall, let alone messaged me. I can’t message him, he doesn’t like when I nag. I can’t call his work, that might look bad.

I’ll have to spend another day waiting for a call from the cops. They found his body in the lake. They found his brains plastered over a hotel room. So sorry for your loss, ma’am, they found him hanging from a tree.

When he gets home we’ll talk. If he gets home. When he gets home. We’ll talk.

I stumble through my day, nerves shaking me up. I get through my shift with only a couple slip-ups. I’m home again and cooking dinner when he walks in the door.

My heart gives a leap when I see him, tears springing to my eyes in relief. I turn back to the corn I’m cutting off the cob so he won’t see. He drops his keys and bag and comes over.

“When’s dinner?”

When is dinner. Like nothing happened, like it’s perfectly normal to disappear for an entire weekend without a word.

“Twenty minutes,” I say as I scrape corn into the pot. I close my eyes for a second and pray that he’ll do something, anything, give me a pat on the shoulder, or might I dare hope for a hug. When I open them he’s gone, off to change and park himself in his office.

By the time I finish dinner my shoulders are drooping, my head heavy. Being on alert for three days can wear you down, and now he’s home and I’m still just as tense. I message him that dinner is ready and collapse on the couch. I flip on the tv and put an innocuous cooking show on. I hear him getting soup in the kitchen.

I’m dozing on the couch, my bowl empty and a new cooking show on. I am bone weary. It is eight o’clock.
This is our agreed-upon quality time. I switch to the evening news so he can’t say I was busy watching something.

I could grab my phone and try to read, instead of wasting my time waiting for him. But if he comes in and I’m on my phone he’ll be mad. So I wait. Maybe he’ll come in. Sit with me. Maybe we can cuddle. And talk.

The news flashes an alert on the ticker going across the bottom. The image switches to outside a normal-looking home. They flash a photo of a nice-looking family. Then a photo of the middle child, a young boy. Blonde hair and blue eyes and a t-rex smile. The only survivor of a murder. A whole family from Braintree is dead. They’re warning people in the area there may be a serial killer, hunting families and leaving one child alive. That poor child.

I wake with a start. It’s past my bedtime and I have a crick in my neck. The news is still going. He isn’t here.

I head up to bed. He’s there. Oh. Found him. He’s doing something on his phone. I climb in. He knows the light from his phone keeps me awake. He rolls away and I tell myself it’s so the light isn’t hitting me and I can sleep better. His back isn’t radiating tension, so he must have had a good weekend.

Maybe he had a great weekend and now he’s relaxed. I tuck one foot under his leg. I don’t dare put a hand on him. But he might like to cuddle. Or more fun things. He grunts, but doesn’t move further away. So. No fun things tonight.

In the morning he’s heading out the door when I wander downstairs. He doesn’t say anything as he grabs his bag and leaves, getting into his friend’s car. I watch him leave. I stand there, staring out the window.

This is my life. Watching him leave. He doesn’t even know I’m here.

If I stopped feeding him he might notice. It would make him mad, though. Maybe not a good idea.

He’ll be late tonight, boy’s night out. While the car is here I get to clean it. I also get to use it, to go to the store and stare at food I can’t afford.

I get my coffee, glancing at the grocery money under the salt and pepper on the dinged-up table. I go back to the window. Staring outside, at the neighbors leaving for work. Somehow even the ones in a hurry or stressed still have more happiness in their faces than he ever does. It’s a willingness, a pliability in their expression, as if they could smile, if you gave them the chance.

I finish my coffee and settle at the table. I open my laptop. Yesterday it was running slow. My anti-virus ran overnight and says there’s nothing, but it’s still acting odd. I pop in the disk for another anti-virus program and let that run.

I’ll clean out the car so I can go shopping. In the garage the clunker waits. It always smells, like the car’s burning something it should be consuming, but it’s burning it anyways just for spite.

I’ve got my wipes and trusty smelly spray. It smells better than the car, anyways. There’s a little trash in the back, he never makes a mess when he goes off for the weekend. There’s a receipt under the seat. I can’t help looking. The Lobster Stop in Quincy. Oh. I like lobster.

I check the trunk. He left his camping gear there. I know better than to touch that. But there’s another bag I don’t recognize. I shouldn’t touch it. He’ll be mad. But maybe there’s dirty laundry or trash in there that needs to be taken care of. I unzip the bag to take a peek, just in case.

It looks like camping odds and ends, rope and gloves and such. I start to rezip the bag, but there’s something shiny in there. I dig deeper. It’s a knife. A big knife. Not a small utility knife, or even a moderate survivalist knife, this is a big kitchen knife.

Maybe he started hunting and didn’t tell me? And this is for cutting up the whatever it was he caught?

I zip the bag back up. I try to put the trunk back, just as it was. I have practice at this and I’m sure he won’t know I’ve been in there.

I finish up the car and head back in the house. The anti-virus completes and oops, there’s a trojan. How did I manage that? I don’t get viruses. I have to quarantine the thing, and jump through multiple hoops to remove it. And one hoop is to check the other computers on my network.

Now I have a problem. He’ll be mad if he finds out that I managed to get a virus. But he’ll be really mad if he finds out I went into his office. And worse, touched his laptop. This program was quick, though, he’ll never know I was in there. I won’t have to tell him a thing.

I pop out the anti-virus disk and take it. I open the door to his office. I don’t even vacuum in here. He hasn’t forbidden me to come in here. Nothing like that. He stares at me, his eyes vibrating with contained malice, until I leave. I’m not stupid. Just lonely.

It looks like a normal office. A normal, cluttered office. He must have some enigmatic system of organization that only he can fathom. Looks like piles to me. I have to move sideways to get past things and to his computer. I only bump one pile, which shifts but stays up.

I try the password he uses for everything. I’m surprised when it works. I start the anti-virus, praying there’s nothing there.

While that runs I go make my shopping list, pulling a couple good recipes for dinner. I like food, making the list perks me up. By the time I’m done the program should be finished.

When I go back to check he has a couple things that might need removing. But not the virus I had. While checking the folders in question I see a name that is interesting. “Successes.” What would be in that folder? Something new he’s been doing? He might have another project that is going well. I would love to be able to talk to him about his work. Or anything.

I click on the folder. Rows of photos pop up. Photos of children. Both boys and girls, of varying age, but most about middle school age. Why does he have these photos? There is no accompanying information. It’s a folder off of the documents folder, no subfolders. Dozens of photos, some pretty old. Some of those kids would be grown now.

I scroll and then stop, freezing when a jolt of electricity goes through my body. My throat has gone dry.

The one in the middle I have seen before. That’s the child from the news.

I flash back to the knife. It doesn’t mean anything. Maybe it’s big and shiny to scare off bears.

Braintree is the next town after Quincy. But that doesn’t mean anything.

I can’t think. I close everything, stop everything. Put everything back. Take my disk out. Straighten the desk calendar. Check for anything else I disturbed. Pray nothing is out of place as I tiptoe my way out of the office and close the door.

I tear through the house, tidying everything. Everything must be tidy. Everything must be neat. Just as he wants it. Nothing out of place. When I’m done I sit at the kitchen table, staring at my laptop.

This binds us together. His success is my success. ‘Til death do us part.

I flip open the cookbook. Find a recipe. Add some items to the list. My hands barely shake.

The photos keep flashing in my head. But I stuff them down. They don’t mean anything.

I take the car and head out to the store. I wince at the prices, and put a few items back, but I manage to get most of it. I guess they’re used to me being odd, no one says a thing as I flinch and stammer my way through the trip and hurry back home.

This is another 3-hour-session flash fiction, based on a prompt from Terrible Minds.

An overworked succubus seeks a vacation, only to find out that she signed up for more than she bargained for.

#

Lerlun tapped the scroll on the table and shook hands with the human, careful not to squeeze the still-bleeding finger. She had always thought it silly to hold onto traditions like signing in blood, but whatever it took for the magic to stick. “It was nice doing business with you.” The woman nodded.

This one had not wanted to seal the deal with a tumble. She just set her signature. Pity. Lerlun had learned control over the past year, she almost never slipped and devoured their soul anymore. But the deal still gave her an itch that would need scratching later.

Lerlun popped into her body and stretched her wings, arching her back to work the kinks out. With her daily quota filled Lerlun began the mountain of related paperwork. Most of the work was in the computer system, but there were still a few old paper forms. Redundancy ruled, hell didn’t want to lose a soul just because someone flubbed up the paperwork.

The workday ended with a tired sigh. Lerlun left the office, her hooves clicking on the stone floor. She took a ferry out to her neighborhood. Her area was a nice one, small families mostly, making their homes in the caves.

She had taken this job to be able to afford a safe place for her baby. Not so easy on a single salary. The job was very demanding, but the pay was good.

Once inside, she went straight to the breeder. Her breath caught in her throat when she realized that the box was dark. The egg was cold. She ripped the cover off the breeder to feel the surface. Her shoulders sagged as she felt the warm egg, the bulb must have just burned out. With trembling hands she fetched a fresh bulb and changed it out. She covered the box back up and then collapsed on the couch.

She hoped nearly killing her child would be the worst thing she did this week. The sleep deprivation was taking its toll. If she had a partner, things would be different. No matter, she would make it work. She could rely on herself, she didn’t need anyone else.

Lerlun let her exhausted mind wander as she tried to work up the energy to get dinner. Two mental trips in one day was really too much. No succubus should have to do that. She remembered her last vacation. That was a fateful trip, her coming cambion her souvenir. But the vacation itself was wonderful, quiet beaches and dark nights, warm breezes and frosty drinks.

Lerlun closed her eyes and projected herself into a dream-state. Here she ventured into the dreams of humans. She found a likely candidate in a young man, a regular. The young men were so easy, seducing them took hardly any work. Actually devouring their souls was wasteful these days and frowned upon. But she could take a hearty gulp, enough to get her through to tomorrow. Unfortunately she was so tired that this time she lost control. Oops.

The next day Lerlun made her way to the boss’s office. She stuck her head in the door. “Bermihr, do you have a minute?”

Her boss waved her in, disturbing the cigarette smoke drifting around his impressive horns. He shifted a pile of papers over. Lerlun moved a couple books off the spare chair and sat.

Bermihr lit another cigarette. “What’s the problem?”

“I was hoping I could put in for a vacation.”

“Vacation?”

“Sure. I’ve been at this job for a year. I am entitled to some vacation time. I’m overworked, Bermihr. My cambion will hatch soon, I’d like to take a little time off to prepare.”

Bermihr huffed as he sat back in his chair. “You know I took a risk hiring a succubus for the job in the first place.”

Lerlun leaned forward. “But I believe I’ve shown myself to be reliable, I get the job done. We didn’t even know if a succubus could do the job, getting them to sign instead of consuming them, and I made it work.”

“You’ve performed very well.”

“Thank you.”

Bermihr shook his head. “As much as I’d like to help you, I can’t give you a vacation.”

“Why not?”

“Your contract. When signing a contract with a demon you should read the fine print.”

“I studied that contract thoroughly. I have fulfilled the terms.”

Bermihr bent to a filing cabinet and pulled out a copy her contract. The original was locked safely away, blood and all. He handed her the copy. “You will continue to do so. There is no vacation from this job, no breaking the contract. There is no exit. You are our employee at your current role for eternity.”

Lerlun’s hopes fell as she scanned the contract. She should not have been surprised. Deceit was to be expected when making a contract with a demon.

#End

This is another 3-hour-session flash fiction, based on a prompt from Terrible Minds.

The Depths of Cloudberry Pie

by M. D. Flyn

Lelia eyed the flyer hanging in the window of the storefront. The box social was coming up. It was the first year she was old enough to make something.

If only she had the time. Or the money for ingredients.

She had to find a way, she had to find a Unit. If the normal route of teas and entertainments wasn’t open to her, she would do something different. She was smart enough to figure it out. She just needed to apply herself.

She would make something spectacular that they couldn’t resist bidding on, and then she’d have an opportunity to show someone how valuable she could be.

Later that evening she was sifting through the recipe book and came across cloudberry pie. Cloudberries were so hard to gather that most people bought them canned, if they wanted to indulge. But the texture of fresh cloudberries couldn’t be beat. If she could afford the liquer she needed for the recipe, and she harvested the berries herself, she could make a pie people would fight over.

Lelia hurried to her room to count her money. The small pile of coins had been saved for ages. Most of the money she made working at the library went straight to Mother. But sometimes she stayed late and the librarian would give her a little extra. Hopefully it was enough for the expensive liquer.

The next day she hurried through her chores, printing the books that were on order. She delivered them in record time, and then rushed to the general store. They had the liquer she needed, for almost all of her money. She paid up and clutched the bottle the entire way home, fearing she would drop it.

When the precious liquid was safely hidden in her room she quickly packed a bag and headed up the mountain.

It took a long time to climb. The steep slope was a challenge. She made her way up the road until she had to veer off into the forest. There were some tricky spots on the path with steep cliffs. Finally she came to the clearing where the cloudberries grew. They were a low-lying plant growing in a clearing. She picked bunches of them, careful to take the ripe ones. As the berries ripened they became sweeter, but an unripened cloudberry was very bitter and would ruin her pie. She picked until she was afraid she would run out of light on the path, then hurried home.

When she got home she didn’t even have time to clean the berries, it was straight to chores and then dinner and bed.

The next day she rushed through her work again, made her deliveries, and then hurried back home to try a practice pie. She made the filling, which wasn’t hard at all. She stashed the liquer in a cabinet while she worked, hoping Father didn’t find it. It would disappear if he did. She started the pastry, which was the tricky part. It was a very wet pastry, hard to work with. But for a box social fancy pastry would be expected. Fancy packaging would be expected as well, but she hadn’t figured that part out yet.

The first pie was in, Lelia resisting the urge to check the oven often. The pastry would overcook quickly, but if she checked too often it wouldn’t bake right, either.

She was staring at the oven with her arms folded when Teodoro stuck his head in from the stairs. “Hello! What do I smell and when can I have some?”

“You can help me try it, if I manage to not burn it. I think I did the pastry ok on the first try. If I’m lucky I won’t have to go back for more cloudberries.”

He scrunched his face up in mock horror. “You went to get cloudberries without me! You know I’ve been itching to get some climbing in up there.”

“I know, but you were working, and I don’t have a lot of time before the box social.”

“This is for the box social?”

“Sure. I figured I’ll have to wow them, and this will do it.”

“That it will. But they want you to register months in advance for the box social. I thought you weren’t registered.”

“I’m not. Sure they like that, but that’s just so they don’t get too many duplicates. There’s no rule that you can’t bring something.”

Teodoro sighed. “Lelia. There’s no written rule.”

“They’re not going to turn down a cloudberry pie. It will get a good donation for their precious theater project.”

“Ok. But dare I point out, you’re supposed to be all dressed up, new clothes and everything. Show off your prosperity for the prospective Units and all that.”

She opened the oven a tiny slit, peeked in, then closed it again. “Well my strengths don’t lie in prosperity. I might look a little different, but if I can get someone to listen to me I think I can impress them. I have to do something, I’m missing all the usual ways to meet people.”

“I could also point out that you are expected to show up with your full Unit.”

“I know, believe me. But that is unlikely to happen. I will be conspicuous, but better that and visible at all, than home and invisible.”

“Well you know I’m here to help, if you can think of anything I can do.”

“I know. You always are.”

She pulled the pie out. They chatted as it cooled. Once it was ready she took two slices and they tested it, concluding that it was box social worthy. She had managed it on the first try.

Teodoro waved his fork as he spoke, “You know I have a box you could use for presentation. It’s wood with some nice painting on it. It’s the last one and my boss was trying to get rid of it, I bought it thinking it would be a good gift for someone. You can owe me for it and it will increase the value of your pie.”

“That would be excellent, thank you Teodoro.”

They finished their pie and hid the rest of the ingredients, ready for their final use for the box social.

The day of the box social arrived. The first pie had been enjoyed by the Unit, and the pie she would contribute baked beautifully the day before. Lelia spent the day getting ready. She had the box polished. Her trousers and best waistcoat were clean, and she was scrubbed.

Mother helped her with a simple braid. “I wish I could go with you. I’m afraid to leave Grandmother alone, though. You know she hasn’t been that well lately.”

“I know, Mother. I’m sorry you’ll miss it.”

They didn’t talk about where Father had gone. Better for him to make himself scarce.

Lelia made her way downstairs with her box, the pie safely nestled on a clean cloth. She kept watch out the front windows of the printing shop, watching for Teodoro’s wagon. When his father pulled up she hurried out the door.

One of the older mothers from Teodoro’s Unit kept an eye on the young people, six of the eligible children crammed into the back of the wagon. Lelia smiled as she crammed herself onto the bench next to Teodoro. She was sure that package he held contained some adventurous flavors. The young people chatted while they made their way to the town common.

The weather was fine and everyone was out, chatting and socializing. The evening was warm, with a light breeze coming off the lake. There were tables full of offerings to bid on. The older people milled among the tables looking for something interesting.

Lelia approached one of the librarians, who was helping to place items with their markers. “Excuse me. I have a pie to add.”

“Add? What do you mean, add? I don’t remember your name being on the list, Lelia.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I wasn’t registered.”

“Oh dear. Not registered.” The librarian muttered, looking around for someone with more authority to pass this problem on to. “Hey,” she flagged down a clerk from town hall. “She isn’t registered.” She yanked a thumb at Lelia, who was blushing.

“Not registered? Hmm. I think we have extra labels somewhere, but I’ve never had to use them. We’ll have to find a spot.” He waved Lelia on and got her pie settled.

Lelia moved to the side, feeling awkward. Everyone was dressed up, some in trousers and some in dresses according to their taste, but all in fine fabrics and embroidery. Particularly the young people who were placing items on the tables. This was a social event, and an important step in finding a Unit. They all had expensive outfits and hair that had taken care to arrange. They were all dressed nicely, they behaved nicely, and they did not do things that no one else did.

Leia straightened her waistcoat and her back. They would just have to take her as she was. She did the best she could with what she had, and what she lacked in resources she made up for by working harder than any of these people. Someone would see the value in that.

Many Units had brought most of the family, and all of the eligible children. She was the only single person there. She tried not to look like it as she stood alone.

Lelia waved as she saw Mayme pass by with her Unit. Mayme was dressed very properly in a dress, with a complicated braid holding her curly hair back. She stayed behind her elders and said little as the group moved along. When they were past Mayme slipped away from her family and hurried over.

“Lelia! I thought you weren’t registered.” They hugged quickly. Lelia was careful not to mess up Mayme’s hair or outfit.

“I wasn’t. I had a late addition.”

Mayme’s eyes widened. “Oh dear. What did they do?”

“They found me a spot. You look so nice.” Lelia took a step back and gestured for Mayme to spin. “That’s a fine dress.”

“Isn’t it pretty. The embroidery took forever, we had multiple women working on it.”

Mayme nodded at the box. “What did you make?”

“Cloudberry pie.”

“Really! Oh that will go fast. That’s Edrick’s favorite.”

“No. That can’t be happen. I hope someone else wants it more.”

“I don’t see another one. Canned cloudberries wouldn’t do for the box social, and you are the only one crazy enough to go get them.”

“Great. Isn’t there some other person he’d like to eat with?”

“I would assume so, but I doubt he can pass up cloudberry pie. This event isn’t critical for him, he’ll get who he wants for the Unit one way or another.”

Lelia shook her head. “But I need this opportunity, I need to meet someone. I have to find a Unit. I haven’t met anyone interested yet. Can’t you ask him to buy something else?”

“He wouldn’t listen to me. Besides, everyone knows that’s his favorite. Except you, apparently. He has to buy it, it will be expected. If it was safer to get the berries someone would make one just to attract him.”

“Well that won’t do. He just has to change his mind about his favorite. I need to make some connections and my options are limited. He can have whoever he wants.”

Mayme shook her head, “I wouldn’t try to tell him that.”

Lelia sighed. “What else can I do? I can’t just give up.”

“I think you may have to, picking a battle with Edrick is unwise.” Mayme patted her hand. “Next time you’ll have a better chance, just don’t make cloudberry pie.”

Mayme made her way back to her Unit. Lelia tried to keep her expression welcoming and pleasant, but no one approached her to talk. As the young person she was expected to wait for people to approach her.

The chatter died down as the town Elder Demaris made her slow way to the gazebo, leaning on her staff. The Units had arranged themselves in groups, Teodoro’s Unit comfortingly close to Lelia. The elite were arranged closest to the tables. They had registered first and their boxes would be called first.

The auction began, with Demaris leading the proceedings. It was quickly Mayme’s turn and she came forward to display her box. She had an expensive cut of meat, prepared with the help of their chef and kept warm on a special plate that the purchaser got to keep. The bidding got a little heated, and the amount large, before the item was settled and Mayme went to join the Unit of the winning bidder.

There were quite a few offerings and it was much later when the final item was offered, her pie. “We have a late addition.” Demaris frowned as she picked up the card and read. Lelia moved forward. “Lelia’s Cloudberry Pie.” Demaris’s head jerked up and she glared at Lelia for a moment before smoothing her features. “What will I have for this pie?”

Edrick had not so much as glanced at Lelia, but he also had not bought anything else. She was hoping he didn’t want it, but he squashed that hope as he raised his hand. He called out a hefty donation. The theatre was his mother’s pet project so this was no surprise. No one would dare bid against him no matter what he bid. He probably would have offered one coin if not for his mother’s interest in the donation, and gotten the pie without a fight.

Lelia’s shoulders slumped as she eyed the crowd, hoping someone would bid. The crowd was talking amongst themselves, some already eating. Demaris closed the bid and finalized the auction, motioning Lelia on. Edrick came forward and swept up the pie.

“Well now. I guess I got myself a pie. How thoughtful of you to make my favorite.” He grinned as he gestured for her to sit at a table. He sat next to her and immediately cut a slice of pie. He cut a piece for her as well, but she couldn’t touch it.

“It wasn’t for you.” She said as she stared at her plate.

“You made cloudberry pie from scratch, of course it was for me. No one else would have gotten it.”

“I was not aware of your obsession at the time.”

“If you had been to events like this you would have known.”

“Well I did not have the privilege. Now I know and can make something else.”

“That would be a shame. I doubt anyone else would pay for anything you make. In fact you might embarrass yourself even more, being the first person who couldn’t give their food away. At least this way you save some face.”

“But why? I never did anything to these people. I can contribute, if they’d give me a chance.”

“I’m afraid your family has some history that makes them undesirable, and their unsociable habits haven’t helped you.”

“But that wasn’t me. Why can’t people give me a chance?”

He shrugged. “That’s just the way our world works. You play by the rules or you suffer the consequences. If I’m not mistaken you have made a misstep today. Demaris does not like things that don’t fit, and you set your cap far above your place when you made that pie. Now I understand that it was an honest mistake, but most of the people here will assume that you are reaching above yourself. And my mother will not understand anything. Here she comes, to tell you what’s what.”

He snatched his box and fled as Demaris descended on Lelia, her mouth a grim line. “Young lady, I will have no more of this. First you show up with an unregistered box. Then you have cloudberry pie. I can only tolerate the foolishness of youth so far, and this is beyond. You will set your sights on a more moderate goal. My family is off limits. I know you have a friendship with Mayme, but I only tolerate that for the sake of her condition. If I think it is necessary I will terminate that friendship. Do not test me on this.”

She swept away, leaving Lelia gaping. She could already see people glancing at her and whispering. Apparently she already had a strike against her, and now they all thought she was overreaching herself.

She just wanted to find a connection, to find somewhere to belong. But this world and its rules didn’t have room for someone who didn’t fit. She’d have to make herself fit if she ever wanted to find a Unit of her own.

#End

*2800 words, 15 minute read

Took a break from my WIP to write this short, which is backstory for the main character in that universe. Sorry it has more telling than short storying.

Based on the prompt “a story of going against authority” from Terrible Minds.

I previously shared how I was doing my own version of NaNoWriMo in February. More of a commitment to writing than setting deadlines and goals, because deadlines and goals = anxiety and failure for me. I will never be good at NaNoWriMo, butt-in-chair advice doesn’t work for me (waves at fellow intuitives).

My goal in February was to finish my first draft. I didn’t actually have delusions of being able to finish in the month, I have far too many commitments and children and jobs for that. But I committed to making writing a priority, and doing it every day.

Well I came out of it with a 25,000 word exploratory draft. There was a lot of word vomit, so I can’t call it a first draft. There are big holes in there. But I covered all of my plot points, included the stuff from my index cards, and went from start to finish. It still needs lots of fleshing out and worldbuilding. It will get bigger before it gets smaller, hence calling it an exploratory or discovery draft. Bonus is feeling like I’m an explorer, with a safari hat and everything.

The drawback to February is flu season. I do not recommend getting the flu. I caught multiple things this year. No fun. I did write every day, but sometimes I just journaled for 10 minutes. My brain was too fried for cohesion or coherence. I wrote 39,000 words for the month, including draft, journaling, and worldbuilding. Not too shabby. My total for January was 13,000, so something worked.
A couple things I learned:

I get bogged down and once I get frustrated I am easily distracted. This spirals into grumpiness and lack of progress. I have to learn to recognize when I’m stuck and move to something else. Always, when I go do something related, like a backstory, I can go back to the original task and it starts coming.

Beta readers who are family are no good, they never read your piece. You wait, vibrating with impatience, until you turn to dust.

I absolutely can’t write fiction every day. There just isn’t enough time. In fact 2 or 3 days a week I have absolutely no time. I compensate by timeblocking and moving sessions to other days that have room. So I am still doing 7 sessions a week, my wordcount goal being 1300 words each (a lofty but not unobtainable goal). I might just journal on my phone while waiting somewhere, but I do write every day. Just not things where I need to apply my creativity.

The Pomodoro method is very helpful for me. I combined this with the paper clip productivity method. I get a pretty rock in my bowl for every 17 minutes I write without distraction or interruption. Twitter or dealing with children counts against me. Staring at the wall thinking counts as writing, as long as something comes out at the end. 20 minutes is too long, I have a ferret-scale attention span. 15 minutes is too short, I can’t always get anywhere. Sometimes I ignore the breaks.

I really like to listen to Pandora when I’m writing. This means I need the wifi. I turn my phone to silent, so it doesn’t buzz and distract me, but turn the media volume up. I run Pandora on my phone. I disconnect the wifi on the laptop. This way I can listen to my music online without the temptation of the Twitter.

The decaying word count tracker worked out ok. The problem is if you miss a day it starts snowballing on you. So my chart started looking scary when I got sick. Luckily, I vastly overestimated how many words I needed for my draft. I’m still new at this, I had no idea what I should be aiming for.

Here is what the chart would have looked like for a regular NaNoWriMo goal:
Here is what the chart looked like with my actual word count:

So, if you’ve done AnyNoWriMo, tell me:
What is your biggest writing takeaway? What is the best tip you have learned?

It’s a fancy mathey way to say reverse NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month) using the Reward System. In the Reward System you reward yourself at the end by only having to type one word. I didn’t do that exactly, because I wanted to be able to stretch my deadline out, and math is hard. Anyways. You start with a large word count goal and each day it counts down. But nothing explodes at the end. If you’re all excited and you get a lot of words at the start, but struggle at the end, this is the word-count goal calculator for you.

Not only does this word count tracker wind down, but this spiffy worksheet recalculates based on the words and days you have left. So say one day life happens and you get a big shiny 0. It just bumps your total down to the next day and chops it into little bits all over again.

For example. I’m attempting to write 75,000 words in 28 days.

Daily wordcount goal:

Day 1: 3800
Day 2: 3744
Day 3: 3687 (etc)

Note: Feel free to write more. If it’s coming (and if you have the time) why wouldn’t you write more? It’s not a cutoff. It’s a goal. You’re a grown up. Do what you want.

Also note: 75,000 words in 28 days is not realistic for me. I don’t think. Actually I usually have no problem getting 3,000 words in a 2 hour writing session. So close if I don’t skip any. Instead of torturing myself, I will make a concerted effort. I will see how it goes, and at the end I expect to have a good idea of when I can actually finish. Then I can just drag my formulas down for the additional days I need to add to my deadline.

You will also see some spiffy charts on the right to help motivate you. I have to say the wordcount goal countdown is a much more encouraging method that I find very motivating. It’s almost like whack-a-mole, I have the urge to squash that bugger.

The first time I tried NaNoWriMo I had something happen and I missed a couple of days. This left me with no idea how many words I needed to get, except to double up, which I did not have time for. I failed and it’s TRAGIC.

Even if NaNoWriMo just doesn’t work for you, you can still set aside some concentrated time to work. If you add rows at the bottom of this spreadsheet you can extend your deadline. Copy that last row, pull it down, and paste. Voila! Two months to work. Or three. Or thirteen. Or something more realistic than one. You can use this for AnyNoWriMo or AlltheNoWriMos. I’m using this for my FebNoWriMo.

On a side note, you can use Beat Sheets to estimate if you’re where you need to be in the novel with Jami Gold

Troubleshooting: If you break it I can’t help you, except to break it more. My husband charges an exorbitant rate. I suggest redownloading or asking Google.

Thank you to hubby for doing the hard math!

UPDATE:
The decaying word count tracker worked out ok. The problem is if you miss a day it starts snowballing on you. So my chart started looking scary when I got sick. Luckily, I vastly overestimated how many words I needed for my draft. I’m still new at this, I had no idea what I should be aiming for.

Here is what the chart would have looked like for a regular NaNoWriMo goal:
Here is what the chart looked like with my actual word count:

Death by Fruit

by M. D. Flyn

Sara sat on a box and watched the sun rise as it painted the dirty piles of the camp in rose and gold. Snow dusted the debris and shelters. The lake reflected the golden clouds.

A crewman wandered through the camp, dazed with hunger. Most were resting, some trying to find food or shelter. Ben had gone out in search of something to eat. Sara waited.

Scott approached, the torn sleeve of his once-spotless uniform flapping in the breeze. He leaned against a pile of boxes next to her, “you know they’ll start dropping soon.” He rubbed his hands together, over and over, the skin already raw. “Most of them are sick, all of them are weak. It’s only a matter of time now…but we could buy more time.”

She set her jaw. “How would we do that?”

“We have a source of protein right here. That could buy us time, to find something we can eat.”

“You mean the creature? Everything we have tried to eat on this planet so far has killed the person who tested it. I don’t think that animal will be any different. Even if you could convince Lyn.”

He shrugged and tilted his head, “Ah, no. I wasn’t talking about that. I was talking about those.” He waved his hand out at the camp. A few people were visible among the piles and tarps.

“What? Nothing edible survived the crash.”

His brows drew together as he frowned, “No. The people. Protein. Before they all die and rot.”

She grimaced, “That is sick, Scott.”

“That’s survival, Sara. We don’t have a lot of options left.”

“Well, that’s not one of them.”

“You may regret that decision soon, Sara. We’ll run out of people and then we won’t have the opportunity.”

“Well it won’t come to that. Ben went out again. Maybe he found something.”

“Sure, Sara. Sure.” He shuffled off with his hands in his pockets. Sara glared at his back. They weren’t going to die here. She wouldn’t allow it. Could she sacrifice a few to save the rest? Even if she did, there was no guarantee that wasn’t just prolonging their end. She refused to make such a heartless choice.

Lyn stopped in front of her. Her braid was unraveling and her uniform showing wear, but her face and hands were clean.

Sara waved at her, “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing what I can, which isn’t much. I don’t have the equipment I need to treat them. They’re all going to get sick. We lost a couple already, and it will snowball from there. The healthiest might make it a couple months, but most will be dead soon.”

“No progress on something edible?”

“No, we can’t process the food. If we boil the water it stays down. But nothing else. At some point our fuel will run out and we won’t even be able to do that. But we’ll all starve to death long before that.” She smirked as she crossed her arms.

“Well, take more people if you need to. We can try to find a local plant we can burn.”

“I’m trying, but I’m as hungry as everyone else. We’re at a critical point right now. I don’t see how we’ll make it out of this.” Tears shimmered in her eyes, Lyn pivoted and walked away.

Sara sighed. She was so tired. Her stomach didn’t even hurt any more. It hung like a rock in her gut.

If she sat here, maybe the choice would be made for her and she wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. That would be peaceful. Her eyes drifted shut, and she didn’t bother to open them again.

Someone shook her shoulder.

“Sara, I’m back,” Ben knelt next to her, his bag on the ground next to them. Bits of leaves and tiny sticks clung in his hair. She reached up and plucked one out, spinning the branch between her fingers and staring at it.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“I found something that looks like mushrooms. Might be edible.” He held out a small rounded plant.

“Mushrooms? Don’t you dare.”

“I could take a tiny bite.”

“You can’t risk it. At the least they will make you violently ill, and you can’t afford to lose any calories right now.” She took the plant out of his hand.

“We have to try.”

“No,” she said. They sat together in uncomfortable silence. “Scott had another idea.”

He frowned and sat back on his haunches. “I’m sure I won’t like this.”

She looked him in the eye.“He thinks we should choose people to be food. Before it’s too late and we’re all dead.”

“That’s disgusting. What’s the point of surviving if we lose our humanity in the process? No way.”

“It’s been done before.”

He stood up quickly. “Sure, when they were waiting for rescue. Rescue isn’t coming.”

She stood and closed the space between them. “But it could give us a chance.”

“A chance to what, take longer to die? No thanks. Not at that price.”

“It was just an idea.”

“Well let’s leave it that way.” He closed his bag and turned away from her.

“All right, but we have to keep an eye on Scott. He may take matters into his own hands.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t have put much past him when we were all healthy. He’ll do what he wants the first chance he gets.”

She started up the path. “Watch your back. It’s my turn to watch the Creature. I’ll see you later.”

“Sure. Just be careful. At the peak I saw a storm front coming this way, could be snow.”

Sara sighed. “Just what we need.”

She shuffled across the camp, up the mountain. It wasn’t long before she was panting, wiped out from the walk. She had been in her prime before all this, a soldier through and through. Now she couldn’t even walk across the camp. Her father would be so disappointed if he could see her now. All that effort, all that training, struggling to climb the ranks. All for nothing.

She approached the carcass of the ship, split open and torn to bits. The crash had killed many, and the smell was terrible. With snow on the way, at least the cold should keep the smell down. So there was a silver lining.

She moved along the path they had made through the debris, into the ship. What was once the ceiling was now the wall.

Sara still didn’t understand why they had bothered moving the creature. It got in the way of a crashing space ship. Why waste resources trying to help it? She would happily eat it if she thought it wouldn’t kill her to try. Sara was ready to ignore it, but Lyn wanted to treat it. Sara didn’t understand how Lyn expected to treat an alien life form.

When the nights got colder, and the creature shivered, Lyn wanted to move it into the ship. Lyn asked for volunteers and got them, back when the hunger was a small thing. They wrapped the wounds as best they could and moved the animal into the hangar. The creature’s wounds healed quickly, but the animal steadily shrank and did not move, only observing them warily with its three eyes.

She nodded as she came up to the guard. He nodded back, dark circles under his eyes and his pace slow as he turned and left the ship.

The Creature was still. When they first found the animal it was mammoth, but now it fit in this hangar of the ship. The skin on its underside was a smooth, dark blue like cold water seen through clear ice. Waves of light moved on its skin, pulsing like a heartbeat. At the ends of its six limbs the smooth blue faded to white fur that ended in the same long, silky tufts that were on its pointed ears. It had three eyes that glowed with that pulsing inner light. When it curled up in a ball, it looked like a giant white cat.

Now the animal was still, in a furry pile of light. Those three eyes followed Sara as she eased down to the floor. The light reflected off the metal walls in waves.

She only guarded the creature because she knew most others would not. Protecting her people, that she would volunteer for.

As she sat and watched those eyes she considered the survivor’s options, which were slim. People had started dying in numbers. There was no food, there was no shelter, they didn’t have enough resources. There had been a few suicides, and soon more. On the other hand, Ben was right. What was the point if they abandoned what made them human? Better to die with dignity. Their numbers were down to just thousands. They were all on the verge of starvation. Soon panic and desperation would set in, and bad things would happen. People would make terrible choices. Sara would choose to die with grace.

She realized the creature was making a noise – a rhythmic rumbling. It was getting louder. The pulses of light were coming faster.

Sara stood, alarmed. It wasn’t attacking, or trying to move. Should she get help? Do something? Wait?

Suddenly the light ramped up to the intensity of a strobe, the light growing brighter until Sara had to throw her arm over her eyes. She saw a burst of light, felt a whoosh of air, then nothing.

She woke on the floor of the ship. The creature curled in its ball, its pulsating light very dim. Sara tried to stand, but vertigo tipped her back down. Her entire body ached as if she had just recovered from a fever. She gripped her stomach and braced herself against queasiness, her hands shaking with a terrible weakness. She sat and breathed deeply until she felt a little better. Carefully, slowly, she stood. She creaked her way out of the ship.

Outside many inches of snow had fallen. Nothing disturbed the snow – she might be the only one moving.

Suddenly, something stirred further down the hill, the flap of a shelter moving. A man came out and looked around blearily, clutching his stomach. She could hear more people moving around. Sara headed down the hill to Lyn’s shelter and pulled the door aside. Lyn was just rising from the floor.

“What happened?” Sara demanded.

“I don’t know, I just woke up,” Lyn replied, glaring.

“Well it looks like we all fell asleep where we stood… and stayed out long enough for several inches of snow to pile up. Are you sore? I feel terrible.”

“Oh yeah,” Lyn stretched, “it feels like I had the flu. Or worse. I’m so weak,” Lyn smoothed her forehead with a trembling hand and leaned her hip against her examining table to steady herself.

“I’ll check on people,” Sara said. Lyn waved her on.

Sara moved further along the shelters. A few people were out of their tents and looking around, as if an authority figure would materialize and tell them what happened. Sara reached Ben’s tent, pulled back the flap, and stepped inside. He had fallen half on his cot, half off. His bag was on the floor, the mushroom-like plants spilling out.

“Stupid man!” She kicked the mushrooms out of the way and felt his neck for a pulse. “I swear, if you tried to eat those things I’ll kill you.” She couldn’t find a pulse, so she yanked his sleeve higher and tried again. There. Faint, but a heartbeat. He stirred and she felt his pulse strengthen.

She shook him. “Did you try to eat them?”

“What?” he mumbled.

“Did you eat those mushrooms? You said you wouldn’t.”

He looked around, then spotted the plants on the floor. “Oh. I was thinking about it. I hadn’t tried them yet.”

“Oh, you make me mad!”

He blinked and pulled himself to a sitting position, “What happened?”

“I don’t know what happened. Don’t touch those things,” she waved a finger at the plants. “I’ll yell at you later.”

She stomped out of the tent. She would have slammed the door, but the flap just flopped back unsatisfyingly.

More people were awake and moving. Stiffly and with lots of groaning, but they were moving. She felt much better now that Ben had helped her elevate her heart rate. She should go back and yell at him more.

As she stood in the path, undecided, a large bird swooped near. It wasn’t really a bird – none of these animals were truly familiar – but it had feathers and wings and flew. It was large, black and white with a flash of red. She jumped back as the bird dropped something, then flew off. Sara edged closer to the thing on the ground. It looked like a large berry or a small fruit, brown and vaguely round.

She looked up. Further up the hill she saw another bird drop something near another survivor. She eyed the fruit. She nudged it with her boot. It could be an egg about to hatch a dragon or something. There was no telling.

She heard a chittering sound and a small animal emerged from between two piles of debris. It had fur but walked on two legs, with long ears like a rabbit, and large eyes that seemed intelligent. The animal carried a handful of plants identical to the one at her feet. It chittered at her, dropped the fruit, and sat down to eat, watching her the whole time. She stared as it chewed.

“I think it’s trying to tell you something,” she jumped as Ben spoke from behind her.

The animal’s eyes flicked to each speaker. It reached out and pushed a fruit toward them, then settled back and waited.

“What does it want?” Sara leaned back from the animal, eyeing it warily.

“I think it wants us to eat those.” He pointed at the fruit.

She shook her head. “No way, Henry tried those. You remember Henry? He died trying to find edible plants, like that thing.”

“I’m telling you, it wants us to eat them.”

“That’s stupid. Whatever knocked us all out made me feel worse. There’s no way we’re eating those. They’re poison. Shoo,” she waved her hands at the animal. It leapt up and ran off into the woods.

“See what you did? You scared it.” Ben reached down and popped a fruit in his mouth.

“Drop it!” she yelled and jumped at him, trying to get her hands into his mouth. Tears jumped to her eyes as they struggled. He held her hands away from him and grunted when she kicked him. He swallowed and she stopped fighting him.

“They’re not bad. Maybe an acquired taste.”

“I hate you,” she dropped to the snow as the tears spilled over, struggling to keep herself quiet, refusing to sob as tears rolled down her face. He put a hand on her head, and they waited for it to start. More people were rustling, waking, moving around. More birds dropping more of that same fruit.

“Hmm. Shouldn’t I be writhing right now?”

She looked up at him, still sniffling.

“Um. Yeah, I’m pretty sure you are.” She looked down at the plants. “There’s no way. They’re poison, we can’t process them. We’re allergic to this entire planet.”

He reached down and grabbed a couple more fruit. He paused for a moment and looked at her. She nodded. He popped them in his mouth. “I think these are palatable. Weird, but. Eatable. Unless I die.”

“I hate you so much.”

#End

Took a break from my WIP to write this short, which is backstory for that universe.

Based on the prompt “hope in the face of hopelessness” from Terrible Minds.

I was a born writer. I devoured books at a typically precocious age. I ran off to the woods and wrote poetry when most kids weren’t allowed out alone. I wrote and wrote all through school, through high school. I have folders full of writing, including one novelesque attempt.

But then I graduated. I started having kids. Work and kids and life happened and somewhere along the way I stopped writing. It seeps out of you, if you’re a born writer. Christmas cards with poems and beautiful letters. Company newsletters that are lovingly crafted.

18 years after I finished high school. That’s how long I waited to take an online college course on creative writing. That’s how long it took to get back to my heart. Why did I wait so long, why did I waste so much time? I still don’t know. But I know that writing is where I’ve always been, this whole time. I have a confidence I have in nothing else. That I will keep doing it until it’s good. That it will be good.

I tried Camp NaNoWriMo last year. I failed in a flaming poo kind of way. I didn’t even pretend to try the legit NaNoWriMo.

A lot of things about NaNoWriMo just don’t work for me. If you have nifty things like a life, kidlets, serving on the board at your local homeless shelter (send them money!), or a really exciting hobby, NaNo isn’t realistic. We don’t all have the privilege of big chunks of time.

But. That doesn’t mean you can’t set aside some concentrated time to work. You can use the time you have available. Predraft while you’re doing dishes. Dictate into your phone on the morning commute. Squeeze an hour after the kids go to bed. My daughter writes on her phone using Google Docs between classes and gets 1,000 words a day.

I have been writing short stories for about a year now. I started a couple bigger projects, but got bogged down when they went too dark and I felt like I shouldn’t continue. I set those aside.

But this one. This is the one I’m going to finish. Even if it sucks at the end, finishing a first draft is a step every author takes. Maybe I’ll just have to turn around and first draft something else. I’m learning a lot along the way. I’m learning about myself, I’m learning about the writing process. I’m learning how to be patient while I learn. And February, this February is when I’m going to put in my concerted effort. The TV will take a nap, the lunch dates will have to wait. I’m writing.

So how am I doing FebNoWriMo, with my 68 kidlets and three jobs? (I’m lying. It’s 4 kids.)

I got my squirrels in a row:

I made a bullet journal in Evernote for pesky responsibilities.
I got my stare-at-the-wall-and-think all pretty.
I predrafted (I’m still predrafting shhhh).
I set up Scrivener* with my ridiculous amount of freewriting and my story bible.
I have a stack of dump slow cooker meals in the freezer.
I bought 80 months worth of school snacks so I don’t have to go to the store ever again.
I watched all the important stuff on the DVR.
I warned people I would be MIA.
I scheduled fun in there so I don’t lose my mind.
I committed to walking religiously.

One thing I did before attempting this first draft was take some time to learn what works for me. Which is: zero conventional writing advice. My personality type is un-mainstream, what works for most people stifles me. I am one of the most FEELING personalities. I feel all the feels, I intuit all the intuits. I care about people and characters, I don’t give a hoot about your silly logic.

I learned that I don’t get plot, that I have to find plot through my characters. My characters come to me as really real people, if I let them they will tell me the plot. But this requires a ton of freewriting and about a million years of predrafting.

Learning these things, and what does work for me, was a tough row to hoe. The minute you tell someone you’re a writer they think you’ll have a paperback out next month. I haven’t written anything longer than 11,000 words since high school. I am now ancient. This whole thing is a leap into scary dark unknowns.

But we can do it. You, and me, and my chocolate stash drawer. You can’t be an author if all you leave behind is a work-in-progress graveyard. You have to finish that sucker. All those shiny new ideas get a Note, and then back to the WIP. Back to that beautiful novel you’re writing!

Journaling gem: "You can’t be an author if all you leave behind is a work-in-progress graveyard."

Jill leapt into the air, trying to reach the feathered bauble. Servant 5 squealed in glee. Jill considered peeing on the servant’s blankie while she crouched down, ready to pounce again. The noises this little one made grated on her nerves.

She had to get just the right squeal out of the baby, while someone else was willing to record it.

Performance reviews were out and Jill knew she needed to increase her views if she was going to see any improvement in her next incarnation. She was sick of the bargain basement food. Half the time she horked that junk back up just to spite them. She was tired of servant 3 conveniently forgetting to change her box, too.

What was the point of keeping these servants around if they weren’t going to even do their job? She could not understand the big push for more videos. The servants did not need help being distracted and unproductive, they did it all on their own. Their masters could dine on their misery and frustration without lifting a paw.

Far be it from her to rock the boat and ask the big questions. She would just buckle down and work harder on her videos so her review came up better next time. She wasn’t about to risk going back to her previous incarnation, spending time crammed into a shelter before being reincarnated prematurely.

Servant 5 had tired of the game and moved on to the big box of moving pictures. No more practice with that one. Jill abandoned the servant to find the other one that was home. Servant 4 was lying on the couch, radiating misery. Jill purred as she rubbed up against it, soaking up the residual energy.

Jill felt refreshed and settled in on top of the servant, letting it stroke her fur and smooth her coat. Practice for her video could wait, she would much prefer to bask in the gloom of the ill servant.

When servant 3 came home it disrupted the others and a violent display began. Jill hid under the couch as they growled and wrestled. She watched them warily.

Once they settled she attempted to engage servant 3 in a video session. She found a beam of light from the window on the floor and pounced on it as if it were live prey.

Servant 3 did not look up from its communication device.
Jill increased the acrobatics of her activity, as well as the noise level from her pounces and batting.

Servant 4 whimpered on the couch. Servant 5 rushed in waving a piece of fruit. Servant 4 then hollered as it reached for the fruit. Servant 5 hollered back as it clutched the fruit.

Servant 3 did not look up.

Servant 2 entered the room and quickly had the smaller servants arranged on the couch watching the moving picture box.

Desperate for a viral hit that would assure her promotion in her next incarnation, Jill found a piece of lint and began batting it around on the floor, making sure to slide on the slick wood surface.

None of the servants looked up.

In disgust Jill flopped down in the middle of the floor, stretched out with only the tip of her dismayed tail moving. Later, when they were all gone, she would take her revenge on the carpet.

Groomnen woke with a grunt as he crashed to the ground. Iymbryl smirked down at him, foot perched on the overturned stool. He tucked his hair behind his pointed ears and stepped back.

Groomnen growled at him, struggling to get up. He winced as he put his hand down on the rough wood of the floor. He picked dirty straw off his clothes The pounding in his head made it difficult to move.

“Got a little overexcited last night, did you?” Iymbryl righted the stool and sat gracefully in his own chair.

Groomnen put his cushion back and climbed up onto his stool. “I dunno. I don’t remember.” Groomnen groaned as he tried to hold in his brains, which were trying to seep out his ears.

Iymbryl waved two fingers at the serving wench across the room. “You didn’t do anything stupid. Not again.” The wench dropped off two ales and sped back to her other customers. Groomnen hunched over his ale while Iymbryl took a sip.

“Maybe.” Groomnen held up his hand to show the deep cut on his palm.

Iymbryl choked on his ale. “Groomnen Flatarm! You didn’t. You wouldn’t. Not again.”

“Maybe not. But the palm doesn’t lie.” Groomnen resumed holding his brains in through his forehead.

Iymbryl gestured around the room. “No, no. After last time there’s no telling what you swore to. We warned you, you got too much drink in you. We had to buy off that whole village to leave. I thought the party would kick you out then, but you got lucky. Unless there’s gold on the other end of that cut, you’re out.”

“I have no idea what happened. Can’t remember a thing. I was having a fine evening, entertaining the crowd. They were a great crowd, they liked the dirtier songs. The ale kept coming, and I kept singing. My throat’s sore now, on top of the pain in my head and the fire in my belly.” Groomnen cautiously sipped his ale and turned a light shade of green.

“We can figure it out. Head it off before the others find out. Who else was here? Was that wench working?” Iymbryl waved at the girl again. She scowled before detouring back to their table.

“What would you like today?” she asked the pair. “Did you want to wait for your friends?”

“Our friends will be along. Meanwhile, we wanted to know who my friend spent time with last night. It seems promises were made that he might regret now.” Iymbryl gestured at the groaning Groomnen.

She swiped at the table with a dirty rag as she talked. “He was keeping the crowd happy. They loved him and bought him a lot of drink. When his voice got a little sore he begged off. He was still enjoying the company of a couple of rough characters until most left. Just the orc and him, last I saw before I went to bed.”

Iymbryl gripped the edge of the table with white fingers, “Did you catch the orc’s name?”

“Verlgu, I think it was.”

Groomnen leaned over and heaved into the straw on the floor. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” he said as he straightened back up.

She sneered as she stepped back from him, walking away.

“Do you feel better now?”

“My stomach, immensely. The rest of me, not so much. What do you think I promised Verlgu? He’ll rip me in two as likely as sneeze at me. I’m done for. He already hated me. Now I’m doomed.” Groomnen banged his head on the table.

“What could he want from you? Besides to rip you in two. You annoy him. You have nothing he values, you don’t even have a good dagger.” Iymbryl shook his head as he glanced around the room, hoping someone familiar might have a clue.

The wench returned with a pail to scoop up the soiled hay. As she turned away she said, “I do recall before I left I saw you hand him one of those scarves, like the one you have on your arm. Red with a hawk in white. He was mighty happy to take it.”

Groomnen clapped a hand over his mouth to cover another horrible noise.

“That’s it, you’re dead.” Iymbryl banged on the table. “If Verlgu doesn’t rip you in two, then the team will. What would possess you to give him one of our scarves? Like those adventurers would allow an orc to tag along. It’s hard enough to tolerate you, but at least you can sing. An orc will just tear around and smash things until he gets a new weapon. Then he’ll smash some more. He’s all brawn and no brains, and he smells. I want no part of it.”

“I have no desire to get dead today. Maybe he lost the scarf and forgot. He must have had plenty to drink, same as me. Maybe we can bolt before he shows. Maybe we can let him tag along and then lose him real quick. We better think of something.” Groomnen sipped his ale. He waited a moment, then took another sip.

Iymbryl crossed his arm and planted his feet. “You took a blood oath. You’re done for. My worry is if your oath applies to the whole party…if you had the power to make that oath for all of us. I don’t want the bad juju if it does and we dump him.”

Groomnen winced as the front door opened and bright morning light streamed into the pub. As the door closed it revealed Verlgu, standing in the doorway with a Hawk scarf tied on his huge bicep and a toothy, hungry grin on his face.

The tables and tankards shook a little as Verlgu stomped over to the table. “Hey, Groomnen, me come with you now.”

Groomnen winced all the way up to Verlgu’s head, almost brushing the ceiling. “About that, chum. I don’t remember what promises I last night. I’m sure any oath can’t be held up to the light of day. You understand how it is.”

Verlgu thumped the bottom of his club on the floor and held up his palm so they could see the cut there.

“You swore blood oath. Me join Hawks now.”

“That sounds like a good deal, but you see I’m not so sure the team will go for it. Now I have clarity and all.”

Zorge watched as Byni jumped in the pond. The little ones were all chattering in a happy flock.
Byni’s red plumage was easy to spot, her tiger-striped extensions standing out. She was exploring her individuality with enthusiasm and Zorge already missed how she used to depend on him.
Meko made his way along the path. When he passed one of the mothers she fluffed up her feathers. He ignored her and stood by Zorge, leaning back to let the sun warm his blue feathers.
“How has your day gone?” Meko asked as Byni splashed a smaller chick.
“Oh, you know, we’re just having fun,” Zorge said as he shuffled his feet.
“So Rille hasn’t given you any trouble?” Meko nodded towards the large female who was still fluffed up and staring. The two hens next to her mimicked her body language, aggressive in their imitation.
“No, she stares like she can incinerate me with her mind.” Zorge shrugged.
Meko smiled, “Her tart little friends don’t seem to have an opinion of their own.”
Zorge stared right back at Rille. “Hatred loves company.”
Meko shook out his feathers. “She knows Byni would have died if we hadn’t adopted her, maybe she should worry a little more about her chick and a little less about our business.”
“She still thinks we will burn in hell.”
Meko looked into his partner’s eyes, “If the road to hell is paved with love, I’ll take it.”
The chicks were playing a tag game that involved a lot of swimming in circles and yelling.
Zorge scuffed a foot, “It’s not the hatred that worries me, it’s her underhanded ways.”
“You think she could be vindictive? What did we ever do to her?”
“Nothing. There aren’t many of things I would put past her.”
“We’ll just have to do our thing, and let her do hers.”
Meko’s feathers crested, and he was diving in the water before Zorge even heard the screaming. The chicks gathered near the water wheel and flapping in agitation.
Zorge couldn’t see what was happening but Rille jumped into the group of youngsters.
Meko appeared from the crowd carrying Chogge, Rille’s youngest. The poor kid had a wing that was bent at an unnatural angle. Rille fluttered around them while one of her cronies used her communicator to summon help. She clucked over her chick while they climbed up the bank out of the pond.
Byni rushed up to Zorge, “Did you see? Did you see it?”
Zorge shook his head, “No, what happened?”
“Chogge got his wing stuck in the water wheel and he was pinned. He squealed something terrible. Good thing someone strong was here to get him out.”
“Mmm good thing.” Zorge watched as Meko loaded Chogge on a stretcher and Rille waddled after her son.
Meko waded through a crowd of clucking mothers before he made it back to his family.
Zorge winced. “Did she even say thank you?”
“Of course not.”
“You see, Byni, every day you make choices. Some people make their own happiness. Others make their own misery.”